Page 147 of Daggermouth

“Why?” Lira snapped, her voice rising as her fingers curled into fists on the table. “Why do you have such an interest in him? Why do you care what happens to him when you have been following my father’s orders at every turn to hurt him?”

Mikel looked at Farrow only once and she nodded. Then, he took a deep breath and answered. “He’s my son.”

That isn’t possible. That—how could that . . . it couldn’t be possible.

Lira shook her head. Refusing to believe the lie as her breathing began to come in rapid pants. “No. No, that’s not—”

“He’s coming.” Farrow’s voice stopped Lira’s words, and her eyes snapped to her.

Static began to rupture in her ears, a tingling spreading over her limbs.

Too much is fucking happening.

“Who?” She could barely hear her own voice. “Who else could be a part of this?”

She felt Callum’s hand suddenly slip into hers on the table, squeezing as if he were afraid, as if she might be ripped away from him.

No one answered her, no one said anything, as the door to the entrance of the bar pushed open at her back. The hinges whined as every eye dragged over her shoulder to a place beyond.

Then out of the quiet, a voice she could have picked out of a screaming crowd sounded from behind her.

“Hi, sis.”

Chapter twenty-nine

At What Cost?

ThefirstthingGreysonbecame aware of was the pain. It radiated through his skull, pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat, dragging him up from the black depths of his unconsciousness. He tried to lift his head, but the small movement sent agony lancing down his neck and spine, wrenching a groan from his throat. His tongue felt thick and dry in his mouth, tasting of copper. Of blood.

He forced his eyes open, blinking against the harsh light that stabbed at his retinas. The room swam into focus slowly, details emerging from the painful brightness. A glass box. A single light recessed into the ceiling, too high to reach even if he could stand. And he couldn’t stand, he realized, because he was tied to a chair.

No, not tied.

The word was too tame, too civilized. He was bound. The same thick red cord used to tie rebels bit into his wrists and ankles, immobilizing his limbs. Sick symbolism courtesy of his father.

More cord wrapped around his chest, his waist, his thighs, welding him to the chair as if it were trying to consume him. He could feel the bruises forming beneath the bonds, his skin screaming at the pressure.

He tested his restraints, straining against the cords until his muscles burned and skin bled. The chair didn’t so much as budge. He scanned the floor, eyes catching on the bolts, the thick rivets securing it tothe concrete. An interrogation chair. A chair for traitors and rebels, designed to hold its occupant in place no matter how they struggled, no matter how they fought.

The irony wasn’t lost on Greyson. How many times had he stood in similar rooms, interrogating rebels who were strapped into a chair just like this one? He’d always thought there would be a certain dignity in it, a stoic resolve in the face of death. He’d been wrong. There was no dignity here, only fear and fury, and the dawning realization of his own helplessness.

His head ached, the pain sharpening as his senses returned. He could feel dried blood on his face, cracking as his jaw clenched. The memories were hazy, fragmented. The Veyra descending on them in his father’s office. Shadera’s fingers being ripped from his as they were dragged away from each other.

Shadera.

Her name was a jolt to his system, a spike of adrenaline that cleared the fog from his mind. Where was she? Had they hurt her? The questions churned in his gut, dread mixing with the hot flush of rage.

A sound interrupted his spiraling thoughts. A thud, muffled but unmistakable, coming from his back. From the cell next to his. He went still, straining his ears, hardly daring to breathe.

Another thud. Then another. Then a cry, high and thin, quickly cut off.

No. No, no, no.

“Shadera!” Her name tore from his throat, raw and ragged. “Shadera!”

Only silence answered him. Silence, and then the distinct sound of flesh striking flesh, and a whimper that knifed through him, flooding his veins with terror and fury.

They were beating her. The knowledge settled in his bones like ice, freezing him from the inside out. She was a mere wall away, enduring blows that should have been for him.